My Name Is Memory

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"The world is weary of the past -- O might it die or rest at last!"

•°•°•°•°•

To the one from the star,

The next few days had settled down my apprehension to a normal rhythm of peace and calm.

I didn't think you'd leave me yet. I couldn't imagine a future without you in it. As much as I hate to accept it now, I had come to rely on you probably too much more than necessary.

Is that why you left me that night? The night when everything had gone wrong again, and I needed you by my side more than anything.

"What are we doing today?" You'd asked, while seated on my window sill with your legs hanging off the ledge. Winter mornings were usually white and gray. But that day, the sky was painted in hues of gold and amber. The clouds weren't rollings balls of angry storm, but a soothing white with lazy shades of periwinkle sprinkled along the silver linings.

It were almost as if John knew we were visiting him that day, and was more than happy to finally having got the chance to make his acquaintance with the boy I've undoubtedly committed my heart to.

"We're visiting John today."

"Oh your brother? Does he live out of town?"

"Kind of." Though, not really. The cemetery was located on the outskirts of our little town in Wisconsin.

"So, when are we leaving?"

"In a few. Get ready."

The few was almost stretched to an hour because you couldn't for the life of you choose a comfortable enough trousers and shirt from my dad's closet. Yeah, you probably would've been dead if he was even aware of you stealing his clothes.

"Are we ready now?"

"My hair looks too messy. Maybe it needs more gel?"

"You look fine. Now c'mon."

"But your dad's shirt is all crumpled! Why didn't you let me press it?"

And your complaints continued. Was it really that difficult for you to see that you looked handsome as always? There was this intangible quality -- a trait so appealing in you that one could never name it. It was otherworldly. Just calling it pretty, handsome or beautiful would be an understatement.

"Dude, you're just fine. Now let's go or I'm leaving you here."

You'd grumbled your response, but of course finally agreed.

The last time I'd driven the car was when we visited the park. I was overwhelmed for having driven my wheels after a long time. But that day, I felt no dread at all. I just smiled at your sour expression because you probably weren't still satisfied, and revved out of our driveway, down the road to the place where my brother rested.

It'd been ages since I last visited John. I used to fear that he might not want me to see him. I used to weigh myself down with the heavy trepidation that maybe John blamed me for his death.

I would be lying if I said I have overcome that fear. Even today, thoughts of the day when the accident had occurred crosses my mind. What if I'd waited for mum to get home? What if I'd tried helping him at home itself rather than acting smart and running off to the hospital? What if..what if..what if...

But I have come to deal with the chaos. I have come to accept that past cannot be changed. I have come to realise that there was no way I could've known about the accident.

I only wanted to help. Even though the result of my attempts went awry, I still wanted to help!

Soon, after a few minutes drive, I'd rolled the car to a stop before the cemetery, stepped out of the car, and headed towards the gates. I'd expected you to follow me, but soon realised you were still seated on the passenger seat with no intention of ever moving out.

"Aren't you coming?"

You were probably shell shocked. Here you'd be expecting a big house, warm relatives, a very healthy and alive six-year-old John. But you were met with the contrary: a cemetery, dark and lonely, with my brother six feet under ground.

You'd quietly stepped out of the car, and together we went inside to visit John.

His gravestone, a polished block of marble, had the same words engraved on it that our grandpa's also did.

A heart of gold stopped beating,
Two shining eyes at rest.
God broke our hearts to prove
He only takes the best.

A beloved son and brother
John Oliver
26th November, 1966 - 26th November, 1972

I'd placed the bouquet of white roses on John's grave and turned around to look at you. The fact that you hadn't spoken a word at all was starting to worry me.

"Come say hi to John. He's been waiting to meet you."

Shooting a nervous glance my way, you'd trudged forward and kneeled down beside me.

"Hey John. Meet my friend. Say hi!" I'd started enthusiastically.

"Can you actually hear him?"

I didn't know whether to laugh at your comments, or slap you in the head. I mean, you really did know how to spoil the mood.

"Yes, I can. You cannot?"

"No....?"

"Well then I'd be happy to translate. John says hi and he says it's really nice to meet you."

You'd smiled and replied in return, "Hey John! It's really nice to meet you too. Just the other day we visited your favourite place. Would love to go there again with you someday."

"He'd love that." I smiled. John would've been ecstatic if he'd ever got a chance to meet you -- a star. But who wouldn't?

"Really?" Your eyes had widened.

I'd laughed and nodded.

"Oh yes. We could always try the swings! Your sister says merry-go-rounds are your favourite, though? They make my head spin, seesh."

We sat there for a while, just talking; laughing. It was a beautiful day.

I was glad John had the chance to see you;  and for the first time, I felt that maybe he was really here with us, watching and talking.

And smiling brighter than he ever did before.

•°•°•°•°•

A/N

So I've been weighing my options and considering whether or not I should enter the Wattys. I'm just really....nervous? Ahhh Idk fam. >.<

Eeeep, anyway, so let me know your thoughts!

Thank you so much for reading! ❤

~Jenna